


Wolves

by SphinxTheRiddle



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Essentially: AU In Which Lavellan Meets Fenris After Defeating Corypheus and Realizes Some Things, F/M, Implied Future Lavellan/Fenris, Implied Past Lavellan/Solas, Light Angst, what would happen if lavellan met fenris?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 11:31:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8284304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SphinxTheRiddle/pseuds/SphinxTheRiddle
Summary: It took flashing brands and a name for wolves to fit the puzzle pieces together.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever find something you wrote forever ago and wonder: "...just _where_ was I going with this?"  
>  That's how I felt I when I dug this oldie up today.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this snippet as much as I enjoyed finding it again!
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Characters and other recognizable things in this story belong to their respective copyright holders. The only things that I own are the original characters and plot of this story. I am making no money from writing this fan work. No copyright infringement is intended.

He is so different from Solas and she cannot be more grateful for the fact. It isn’t just the stark white hair, or the green eyes, or the dark tinge to his skin—the differences lie in areas far more subtle, far more dangerous.

His speech carries a rhythm in a different meter, his accent smoother, his voice deeper, more akin to friction-hot velvet than cool-smoke silk. His native tongue clips – hard, jagged, a sword piercing, red-hot-edged from the forge – leaving cuts and welts and fire and dragons dancing in her mind. It is the perfect voice, the perfect language, for cursing, for snarling, for howling madly in the face of raging enemies or her own ravaged dreamscapes. She finds herself eager to learn as much as she can, supplementing what little she learned with Dorian and the crossovers into her own language when she cannot remember the proper terms.

_She calls Fenris a damnable wheel of cheese by mistake once and his laughter hums in her ears for days afterward._

She loses her breath whenever his brands flare to life, the air tasting sharp with the acid of lyrium, the power tingling on her skin the closer he stands. With Solas, the ripples in the Fade washed over her like water—deep, murky, yet controlled. But the devastations of Fenris’ branding feels like being flayed—serrated, raw, barely kept in check by the toll they take on his body.

_She offers to channel healing magic into the whorls when they start to sear his skin and the black look he shoots her sends chills down her spine. The curt “no” is spoken in a baritone so low, it takes all she has to hold his eyes._

His evasion of questions is blunter than the hammer Solas used, face twisting and teeth flashing whether he laughs or snarls, so that she can never be certain if what she says insults him. He is taciturn by nature, but put a bottle of wine in his hands, and the stories he weaves will spellbind her, their candidness and his open expressions rooting her in place and wondering if she isn’t asking for too much to see him.

_She remembers the last time she wanted to **see** someone – really see – and her gut seizes, sour, acrid, impossibly bitter._

And then he tells her about his name.

“It means ‘little wolf.’ Danarius enjoyed the image they created, these marks and this name.” His eyes flicker red-gold-sparks-green-black-shadows in the firelight and whatever demons haunt him cause his gauntleted fists to clench, metal scraping, snapping like pops of flame.

 _Wolves_ , she thinks, imagining howling murals, razor-smirks, too-narrow eyes blue like skies over the moors. Jaw bones hanging like nooses, like blatant declarations, around lip-nicked necks.

 _ **Wolves**_ , she screams when the Fade falls upon her dreams, imagined ancient spires twining through branches of solid white oaks, a howl cutting through the echoes, and large white paws padding too close to ignore, too far to touch.

_Wolves, vhenan. Do you see me now?_

She never wants to see again.


End file.
